When I slip into my bedroom, Warren stands by the bed, a towel wrapped dangerously low around his hips. Water beads across his shoulders, trailing down the planes of his chest.
"Blake brought Beckett back," I blurt out. "He saw your truck. Your boots. He almost caught us."
Warren steps toward me, drops of water falling from his dark hair. "I heard commotion, so I figured I'd better stay in here. What did you tell him?"
"That you parked here and got a ride somewhere. But he didn't buy it. I could see it in his face."
Warren's hand finds my hip, steady against my panic. "Blake's too wrapped up in his own life to connect the dots. Especially on a Friday morning after Thanksgiving."
He pulls me against him, my clothes soaking up the dampness from his skin as his mouth lowers to mine.
I place my hand on his chest, creating distance. "You need to sneak out. I don't want Beckett seeing you come out of my shower, out of my bedroom."
"Janie—"
"Circle back. Knock on the door. Make it seem like you just arrived."
Frustration flashes across his face, his jaw flexing. "This is ridiculous. We're adults. He's four."
"We have to be careful. If everyone finds out like this, it won't be right. We need to decide what we're doing, and we have to share it on our terms. Please, Warren."
Warren’s eyes hold mine for a long moment before he nods, reaching for his clothes. A few minutes later, Beckett barrels into the foyer as the doorbell chimes, and Warren is standing there as if our morning together never happened.
"Can we decorate our house with fake snow?" Beckett tugs on my sleeve, eyes wide with anticipation. He's been begging for decorations since we saw the Christmas display at Walmart last month.
"We'll talk about it, B. It's still early."
The phone buzzes across the counter, Caleb Vance's headshot and hot pink bow tie fill the screen. My stomach sinks. Nothing good comes from a hospital call on a holiday weekend.
“Good morning, Caleb.”
His voice crackles down the line, tight with stress. “We’ve got a situation with the Bransons. Their son’s in pediatrics. He came in with an asthma flare. Short staff today, he’s been waiting almost two hours. Mrs. Branson is furious. She’s already threatening to move him to Miami Children’s and pull their membership and endowment.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. The Bransons’ name is plastered across half of our outreach materials. If they walk, it guts the program.
“Where’s Pope?”
“He and his family are in Denver. He won't be back on the East Coast until Sunday. Janie, they’re demandingsomeone from leadership right now. You’re the only one in town. I need you to get over there.”
I glance at Beckett, who’s halfway up a chair, tugging at the closet door for the Christmas boxes. Warren leans against the doorframe, his arms folded, watching me.
“Now?” My voice is sharper than I intend.
“It’s bad,” Caleb insists. “They’re saying if a doctor doesn’t see him in the next fifteen minutes, they’re done with CHG. You know how much they give us. We can’t lose this.”
I close my eyes for one beat, already grabbing my coat. “I’m on my way. Keep them in a private room if you can. Tell Mrs. Branson I’ll meet her myself. She knows me. I'll call Dr. Matthews on my way in.”
I end the call and find Warren’s gaze still locked on me.
“Crisis?” His tone is steady, but his eyes narrow slightly.
“Donor family. Their son’s having an asthma attack in peds, and they’ve been waiting too long. If they bolt, our entire outreach budget goes with them.” I shove my arms into my coat. “I have to go.”
Warren steps forward, his voice steady. "Go. I've got him."
"I'm sorry?—"
"I want to." Something shifts between us. His eyes hold mine. Steady. Certain. Something flickers there, and for a heartbeat, I forget I need to get out of here. "We'll be fine. Right, Beck?"